A thick blanket of white snow glistened brightly as I drove down my road to the local market in Woodstock, VT. Woodstock Farmer’s Market to be specific. A market my father would have loved. Cozy and welcoming like the first Trucchi’s Market in Taunton, MA but updated. Organic and unique. Having said that my father always tried to locally source as much as possible for our family supermarkets. Local farmers delivered to the Tremont Street store always. My dad had a vision …
The market was quiet this morning. 8:00 am and I had the store primarily to myself. Employees busy stocking the market for the day ahead. Familiar faces and early chats. I see a friend who is a writer as well and we talked of the horror that the fires have brought to the people of Southern California. She had moved from Southern California with her children to Vermont some 20 years ago after months of fires threatening their home. I tell her about a high school friend and my worries about his safety including the mental stress he is understanding right now.
We talked a bit longer about our writing projects before I doubled back to the produce area to grab some broccoli. On my way towards the register, I stopped to look at the flowers. I was just about ready to grab some tulips as I decided about which color. I reached my arm towards a tall black bucket when I spied hyacinth in a neighboring vessel. I love hyacinth. Thoughts of spring on this cold January day, yes, but heart strings expanded as I returned to London in the late 90’s.
Expats and house hunting. Our children were grammar school aged when we relocated to London for a few years. We had looked at properties from Hampstead Heath, St. Johns Wood to Kensington.
After several viewings, we arrived with our estate agent at a property in Kensington. Just off the High Street. 32 Pembroke Square in Kensington. W8. Wisteria draped and dripped down the exterior wall. Painted white stucco and tan brick. A row house.
We walked through the rod iron gate and down a short slate walkway and up 3 stone stairs. A beautiful shiny black door with a polished brass knocker. Hiring the existing brass polisher for the front door was a requirement of our rental by the owner. Each Thursday at 1pm rain or shine…
The grand door opened into a hallway carpeted in a neutral beige. The floor creaked in a welcoming way. The walls a deep warm buttery shade of yellow. A yellow I have always looked for but have never been able to duplicate. An impressive collection of limited-edition bird prints lined the walls. Pheasants etc.…
Down the carpeted stairs from the first floor. A terra cotta floor greeted the last step. The kitchen warmed by an Aga, but the scent of hyacinth permeated the small lovely fireplaced area. The kitchen table displayed a small but potent bouquet. The pale pink color second to the bold fragrance. This was it. This would be our new temporary home.
An Aga. New to me and it took some trial and error, but I grew to love cooking on it. The kitchen warmed by the constant heat. We bought a small antique yellow pine table from a shop in Chiswick, London with drawer that housed cloth napkins and placemats. I loved seeing my children sitting opposite one another having breakfast before school. Many friends and family that visited us over the course of our stay sat at this special table.
Daily I ran errands. Groceries and dry cleaning were accomplished on foot. I walked everywhere except for going to the kids’ school in St. Johns Wood. A black cab ride that often passed the Beatles Abbey Road Studios. Genuflecting as we passed over the famous crosswalk…
The Square had a street cleaner named Patrick who said hello to me each day. A few words exchanged each morning made me feel less alone in my new city so far from home. “Darlin’ I want to take you to an Irish wake as you have never seen such a party.” I always felt that Patrick was a bit of a guardian angel as his Irish eyes were also on neighborhood watch.
A tennis court located in the center of the Square. My children were young then and I was able to get lessons for them. Maria their instructor would also become mine. We arrived for my children’s first lesson and as I entered the court I saw another mom with her young children. We both had a boy and girl in tow. She greeted me with a smile, a local who soon became a dear friend.
So many afternoons we sat in the butter yellow sitting room sipping tea while we discussed everything life was throwing at us. Fast friends we were. Laughing often. Kindred. Art and politics were always on the table. We talked about our children. Our children played together as our families grew closer and closer. One Thanksgiving while we were expats we celebrated together and enjoyed the unlikely humor behind a British family and an American family feasting around this tradition. Special it was. We are grandparents together now. Years have rapidly passed. A forever friendship…
Once home to my little house on the hill and groceries unpacked, I placed the vibrant purple hyacinth in a Farmhouse Pottery pitcher. I breathed in the sweet memories of a life I once lived…
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